


Whoever said triangles were only theoretical mathematics figures?

by zort



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 23:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18883483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zort/pseuds/zort
Summary: Knowing what's wrong and how to fix it doesn't necessarily mean that it'll be easy to do.





	1. Whoever said triangles were only theoretical mathematics figures?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hybryd0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hybryd0/gifts).



> So this is me working on archiving my fics here and this was written for a prompt challenge given by the lovely Hybryd0 (years and years ago). The prompts were : "darkness, dancing, candy, broken glass, raised voices, and fuzzy" and they're all in.

He was alone in the room. His appointed roommate hadn’t come back yet, which meant either that he’d got lucky or pissed drunk, most probably a combination of both. He didn’t mind either, except he would have appreciated Sid’s company.  
  
Back to the wall, sitting on one of the beds, he was listening to the noises coming from the next room. He couldn’t make out the words but he didn’t need to, he knew them all too well. Repeated a million times, until they didn’t have any meaning left, if they had any to begin with.  
  
There was the sound of something shattering against the wall followed by a short spell of uneasy silence in the other room. He didn’t realise he had thrown the beer he’d been drinking from until he tried to take another swig and found his hand empty. Next door the voices raised again.  
  
Now he could make out the words, one in particular. His name screamed, spat viciously, repeated again and again, louder as if to make sure he would be part of this domestic quarrel.  
  
Looking over the room, he focused on the shards of broken glass part of him idly considering using them to drown out the fight. Of course the idea wasn’t serious, the clown would have his balls if he turned up the next morning with bits of glass sticking out from his thighs.  
  
In the next room, the voices were still screaming; his name still very prominent. But since he had established that trying to kill himself wouldn’t sit well with the clown, then he was only left with one option.  
  
He hadn’t really expected he would have to get out again before Sid’s return. Wincing when a particularly harsh yell crossed the wall, he made up his mind and grabbed the phone on the night stand. It was only a matter of second before he had sent a message to his roommate explaining where he was going and the time he planned on being back.  
  
Then to be on the safe side, he fumbled around the room’s stationary and wrote a quick note repeating the same basic points, in case Jim freaked out when he would be late in the morning. Once he was satisfied with his preparation, and after a particularly nasty snarl of his name, he grabbed his wallet and his Slayer hoodie before he walked out, leaving behind him the sounds of the fight.  
  
Over the years he’d become extremely skilled at orienting himself in unknown cities and it only took him ten minutes to get to the club advised by the guy at the hotel’s counter.  
  
He had no idea what he’d been expecting but, stepping inside, the club surprised him. Something in the mixed crowd. As if someone had somehow managed to clone Sid and Joey, mixed them together and ended up with a large group of hyperactive goth kids. The club gave off the impression of black and neon coloured striped material, glowing things and pigtails.  
  
With an odd smirk, he pushed his way through the crowd to the middle of the dance floor and proceeded to drown into the music and the bodies pressing into his.  
  
He’d never been one for dancing onstage like Jim randomly did, probably because he had too much to do as it was, but sometimes he envied the guitarist’s freedom of movement, particularly on those occasions when his life refused him any sort of grip on what was going on. In those cases the only thing that helped was getting exhausted enough that he couldn’t actually muster the strength to fight back.  
  
Letting out a soft growl as a girl pressed herself tightly to his back, he pushed back meeting every shift of her body with one of his own. The memories of the fight dissolved into the sensations of her body and all the others surrounding him.  
  
Now, nothing mattered anymore than the pretty lights, the candy sweet colours of the girls’ eyes, the sharp contrast of the eyeliner around the boys’ eyes, the warmth of the crowd pulsing and moving around him. He was part of the colourful, ever-shifting mix.  
  
No more name, worries or future, only the present and the beat and the bodies against his.  
  
He couldn’t tell how long he’d danced. He only knew the dull ache in his body, the signal that he’d had enough.  
  
Moving slowly now that he’d exhausted all his energy, he walked out of the dance floor towards the bar for something to drink. He probably would have gone through with the notion except darkness fell on his eyes and he froze as a warm body pressed against his back, the hand on his eyes pulling his head back into a broad shoulder.  
  
Then he felt the lips softly caressing the shell of his ear as the man whispered his name. And he melted, because when that voice said his name he couldn’t avoid all the memories he’d been trying so hard to forget for a little while. Even through the fuzzy haze in his brain, the memories of that body pressed against his seared through his spine. It had all been useless again.  
  
Reaching up, he pulled the hand off his face and turned his head slightly to glance at his band mate. With a minute shake of his head, he kept the man from speaking again, but instead pulled him along and out of the club.  
  
Outside the night was getting lighter. His fingers still tightly closed around the other man’s hand, he made sure they walked for a while in complete silence. Eventually he reached in his pocket for his cigarettes, offered one to his companion and lit both before he decided he was ready to talk.  
  
“Why did you come?”  
  
He watched as the other man dragged on his cigarette. A mixture of fear and concern etched across the dark face and he knew the answer.  
  
“Craig went after you…” A low sigh, another anxious drag on the cigarette, he watched as the smoke haloed around his band mate’s face. “I checked with Sid, and the guy at the counter remembered telling you about that club…”  
  
For a few minutes there was more silence, so he finished his cigarette before he asked the next question, watching in front of him because he couldn’t bear to look at the man’s face anymore.  
  
“Paul, tell me… Why didn’t you chose?”  
  
He didn’t see his friend wince slightly, but he heard him sigh, then stomp half-heartedly on the cigarette butt.  
  
“I can’t chose…”  
  
He kept looking at a street lamp right in front of him, like it held the answer to the universe.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“He needs me.” A pause. “I need you.” Another pause. “I told him that…” Another low, defeated sigh.  
  
This time he knew he had to do something, so he grabbed his friend’s wrist to stop him. Then he waited until he’d found Paul’s eyes before he put the man’s hand on his belly where he still had the scar from when a crazy psycho had stabbed him, except both of them knew who had stabbed him.  
  
“He’ll kill me.” And with that he stepped closer and crushed his lips against the bassist’s, rough and needy, because he knew they were running out of time.  
  
Finally, Paul pulled away a little and looked at him earnestly, feelings conflicting on his face, hand still pressed against the scar. Paul looked at him for a long moment, and eventually whispered.  
  
“I know… I’m sorry, Chris…”


	2. Symmetry is a bitch...

He is standing in front of the door of what has essentially become his home. He has never been so scared to open a door before, not even their first gig made his stomach twist so bad. He forces himself to breathe, careful and deep around the cigarette he has forgotten, forces his guts to uncoil and finally makes himself move.  
  
Of course his key still opens the door, he has no idea why he was doubting it would. Except now he is facing the emptiness all alone and his muscles refuse to function. He knows where this is all heading and he wishes he could deny again, if only just for a second.  
  
Slowly, almost carefully, he starts padding through the house. Superstition keeps him from turning any light on, too scared of what it may trigger. The cigarette drooping at the corner of his lips is the only source of light. The house was never so cold before.  
  
  
  
He was standing then, in front of the coffee machine, finger held in midair, frozen in the apparently impossible task of selecting which button to push. In spite of the sounds of relentless activity filtering through the open door, he was alone in the room and something in the way he was not moving suggested he might stay there for all of eternity.  
  
Just the smell of the place made him breathe as little as possible, as if oxygen deprivation was the recipe to stop time. He was perfectly conscious that it was not working, but for the time being he was willingly drowning in denial.  
  
  
  
He has never realised how eerie silent houses can be. He never thought this house would feel like a trap, more accurately at the time denial was still a possibility. He always knew how it would end.  
  
Without active thought on his part, his feet follow the familiar path. Some part of him wishes he could talk himself into changing his route, buy himself some more time. But the cigarette almost burning his lips now reminds him that, approximately 40 hours earlier, he ran out of time.  
  
He does not even take the time to find an ashtray, he just drops the butt on the ground and walks on it. The voice in his head does not bother to tell him it is disgusting. The voice stopped talking to him 40 hours ago. The emptiness is freezing.  
  
  
  
Eventually, time caught on with him and he selected something randomly. It smelled suspiciously like hot chocolate.  
  
His eyes filled with tears as his mind unhelpfully provided the memory of Chris cuddled up on his sofa declaring his unremorseful addiction to hot chocolate, and proceeding to choke on said beverage.  
  
It hurt to remember. It hurt to be there.  
  
He cradled the cup in his hands and slowly walked out of the room, trying uselessly to delay the inevitable a little more.  
  
  
  
He walks in the room at last.  
  
Unsurprisingly there is no light. All the familiar shapes seem to have altered, he cannot make anything out. The voice makes him jump.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
On his way, he thought he was ready, that he would take it like a man, but now his mouth is dry and the words are all running away from him. He opens and closes his mouth soundlessly, then blinks. It is all useless, but he cannot think of anything else.  
  
And the silence settles around them like fog in the dead of a winter night, heavier and heavier until you are utterly lost. He still cannot find words and the other man in the room was never a big fan of speaking anyway.  
  
  
  
He had never thought an annoying, high-pitched, repetitive sound could be comforting. But he had never imagined being happy to go to a hospital. He had never considered he would have to actually face the consequences of his acts, or rather he had carefully refused to think about it.  
  
Walking in the white room, he tried to blank out the litany of injuries, the face of the doctor, the feeling of his lover’s hand in his own. He tried to focus on the beeps, the rhythm of the slowly beating heart. But all he could think of was the seconds ticking by and a coma that was becoming longer and longer.  
  
  
  
The light flashes on and he squints, trying to give his eyes a little time to get use to it.  
  
The man who owns his life is sitting in the middle of the bed, Indian style as if he was meditating. There is a leer on his lips and a deep pain swirling in his eyes.  
  
And suddenly, the words rush to him.  
  
“He’s dead, Craig. Chris is dead.”  
  
He has no idea what he was expecting, but the inhuman wail makes him jump and shatters the cotton that has been wrapped around his heart since he has learnt about the accident. He feels himself vacillating, and he reaches for the wall, but he is too far to brace against it and he cannot move.  
  
  
  
It was 37 hours, 24 minutes and a handful of seconds after Chris had been brought to the hospital. He had been there for approximately 35 of those, and suddenly Chris’s heart stopped beating.  
  
There was a rush of activity around him as the doctors and nurses tried everything. In the end it was useless. It was not over though, there was one last thing to do.  
  
  
  
After a small bubble of eternity, Craig stops screaming. Their eyes lock together: the leer is gone, there is only despair left.  
  
“You made me kill him…” Craig whispers softly. “And I loved him… I killed one of my best friends because you couldn’t fucking choose…”  
  
There is a pause and something catches the light in Craig’s hand. Then there is a soft click.  
  
“Paul…”  
  
His eyes focus sharply on the object. It is a gun and it is armed. That was the click. The time has finally run out.  
  
His mouth opens, the words are just there, but they are not fast enough.  
  
The gun is so loud. He can see everything in slow motion like in a fucking movie. And then there is blood everywhere.  
  
And his last word resounds hollowly in the silence. He never thought he would be there to hear it.  
  
“…Craig.”  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Find me : [incredizort](https://incredizort.tumblr.com/)


End file.
